


The Darcys of Pemberley - George

by stellamoonewrites



Series: The Darcys of Pemberley [2]
Category: Death Comes to Pemberley - P. D. James, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (1995), Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 13:02:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13881408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellamoonewrites/pseuds/stellamoonewrites
Summary: George Darcy, venerable ancestor of Fitzwilliam Darcy, finds himself caught in the trials and tribulations of the English Civil War.





	1. Prologue

The Darcy seat was one of the noblest and well-regarded in England and had been in existence since medieval times. Young knight, Percival D’Arcy, had proven himself to be a wise and decisive leader on the battlefield and had fought on the winning side one more than one occasion; the last time he had battled hard and saved the life of a consequential peer who rewarded him with a substantial parcel of land in the county of Derbyshire and an annuity to be drawn each year from the man’s own estates. 

The Darcys became a prominent family in the years that followed, but as they neither vied for power, nor sought to increase their holdings, they managed to escape relatively unscathed from courtly machinations and baronial feuding. A dalliance by an arrogant and ambitious second son, involved some rather dubious behaviour with the Earl of Warwick. Richard Neville was the Kingmaker, but Richard Piers D’Arcy did not have the foresight or the connections that Warwick did, and he proceeded to lose his head along with several others. This was a catastrophe for his father, Edmund, who threw himself into the lake and never resurfaced. 

The Darcys were largest landowners in the area and the small manor in the valley, standing on the rising ground and surrounded by a small and protective wood, was enough to support the family and their tenants for the summer months when they were not required at court – Henry Darcy was the judge and jury for most of the local land disputes and gentlemen’s disagreements, and as the lord of the manor he dealt with these in the large banqueting hall that formed the centre of the building and which was the centre of business. The medieval manor house was improved with wings, extensions and a stable block being added by each generation as the family and their servants grew. Pemberley was more than a house, it was a workhorse – the servants were organised by a Mr Thomas Wickham, who sourced the best servant girls, cooks, stable hands and labourers from the local village of Lambton and further afield. 

During the War of the Roses, the family leant their support and their labourers to the winning side and found themselves in the favour of the House of York. This support was carried over the Henry Tudor, who was a distant cousin of the lady of the house, Margaret, who was shortly summoned to the palace to serve as lady in waiting to the new Queen. This would be a role carried out by each Lady Darcy until the death of Elizabeth at the end of the start of the new century. 

The Darcy family found themselves specifically favoured by a visit by the King on his summer Progress of 1535 with his new bride, Anne Boleyn, saw the construction of a formidable frontispiece, whilst the mistress commissioned a new set of plates made from Italian glass. The King declared the park at Pemberley to be delightful and congratulated Percy Darcy and his wife Eleanor on their comfortable home and the ample hunting of which he and the court availed themselves. The visit only lasted three days, but the favour that the Darcy family found with the Monarch lasted longer than his marriages to his next two wives.

By the turn of the new century the family’s coffers had dwindled due to mismanagement by Sir Charles Darcy. Despite being elevated to the rank of Duke of Derbyshire by Queen Elizabeth, he gambled away his fortune, failed to invest and neglected his duties as landowner, preferring instead the delights of Court to those allotted him as a gentleman farmer. By the time his grandson inherited the estate, England was on the cusp of Civil War, and the neglected manor at Pemberley, its treasures carefully spirited away by the loyal Wickhams, was an easy target for parliamentarian cannons, assaults and raiders.

George Darcy, his wife and children returned to Pemberley in the Spring of 1660. There was nothing much left of the house excepting the clocktower and the banqueting hall that had formed the centre of it. The Darcy’s had a knack for rebuilding things and the flurry of activity at the manor resulted in two more children, including a longed-for daughter. Reinstated to his Dukedom, George Darcy firmly believed that all was well and that the legacy of Pemberley was secure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Darcy and his bride, Mary, escape from Royalist forces to a strange new land.

It was a fact almost universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a large acreage of land must be in want of a house. George Darcy was such a man and when he returned to England in 1660 along with the exiled court of Charles II, he was fortunate enough to find his lands and estates in Derbyshire returned to him. Though burdened with debt and with only a partially standing house to return home to, Darcy believed himself to be a very lucky man indeed.

George was a short, stout man with a friendly face and a gentle demeanour that belied his skill on the battlefield. He had earned himself formidable reputation during the tumultuous years of the Civil War as a fierce General and a brave warrior. His courage, valour and sheer determination to succeed had marked him out to the Duke of Newcastle, who had required his support during many key battles in the attempt to defeat the Roundhead army. Oliver Cromwell himself had singled Darcy out and focused some of his attentions to the medieval manor house, which had been systematically demolished during the last few months when it became clear that the Cavaliers were not going to be triumphant.

The family had left England in the first few days of 1649, when it became clear that Charles, the proud uneasy man who tried to force his divine rule upon a tired and bankrupt country would not live long into it. As a man of twenty-two with a young bride, he had sailed from Scarborough to Hamburg, where they were lucky enough to find sanctuary with their fellow exiled natives. He was unsure if he would ever be able to return to the country of his birth, or the green hills that he called home.

Mary Darcy, nineteen and two months wed, was hysterical for the most part of the journey. She had married George for the security he had offered, and now she was found herself running away with her small dowry of jewels - her mother’s ruby ring, a sapphire locket and a string of pearls given to a relative by Mary, the Scottish queen, a long time ago. Her father, Henry Wharton, had fought with Prince Rupert at Marston Moor and died on the battlefield not knowing that his two sons would suffer a similar fate. Mary’s mother, a favourite of the Queen, had already sailed for France and safety leaving Mary to decide her own destiny. She didn’t know this man she called husband, but she did know that he was her only hope of survival in a world that was changing around her and so long as God had joined them together she would do His bidding. As she nursed her aching belly and wiped away the tears from her eyes, she didn’t know that it would be eleven years before she would set foot again on English soil. She did not know that the regard and gratitude that she felt for George Darcy would develop into a deep, respectful love that would envelop her body and soul. She did not know that she would return as the mother of three children that God saw fit to bless her with. And she did not know that she would be returning to a vast expanse of Land, a ruined shell of a building and her husband’s fervent promise to rebuild.

*

The ship was called ‘Mercurial’. It was smaller than she had imagined it to be, she thought that if she stretched out as wide as she could she would reach both sides, and she didn’t know how it would manage to convey them across the vast sea. Mary had never seen the sea before, except in books and on paintings, it was colder than she imagined. They were travelling to Hamburg, and suddenly she was struck with regret that she did not pay more attention in her classes at the house in Morevale. The rounded, brown haired girl was unsure how life had managed to conspire against her in such a way that she was on a boat in the middle of the North Sea with a man she barely knew, dressed in clothes that she had borrowed from a servant girl. The garments were itchy, her stomach rumbled with hunger and the wind was icy.

She had moved onto deck to try and abate the nausea that had overcome her, but it was no use. Nothing was helping, and she feared nothing would again. She wasn’t sure if it was the cruel whip of the wind against her face that was making her eyes water, or if it was the sheer helplessness she felt, but Mary sat down on the deck – not caring for rank or cold – and began to sob. She sobbed for the situation, for the cold, for everything that had happened. Mary knew that there were selfish sobs – that despite her loss and her. She was alive and getting away from the confusion and anger that was now rife in her country. The war had been brutal for everyone – at Morevale she had seen the worst of times; had seen people die in front of her – from their wounds, from sickness, from the terrible crush of people being thrown together in such horrendous circumstance.

Mary had been but a child when the rebellions had begun; her father and brothers off to fight for their King – and continuing to fight even when it became obvious that they were not on the winning side. They had never recovered the body of her father, that tall, dark haired man with the hearty laugh and easy charm, but his watch had been returned to her months later by a man who had worked their land in the summers and fought by his side in the battle that had claimed his life. The watch was in her pocket now, keeping time, still constant. She instinctively reached for it and turned it over in her hand, comforted by the memory of it, saddened by the loss it represented. The sky was getting darker now, around her there were shouts of noise in a language she did not understand. Sitting here on the deck of a sloop ship, running away to safety was not how she imagined spending her first few months as a newlywed. But Mary vowed to herself that if she was fortunate enough to survive this and tell her children about it, that she would embellish it as the greatest of adventures. At the end of the sky, just about as far as her eye could see was a clear sky, and she knew that her life would be perfectly wonderful if she could have to courage to chase that small patch of blue.

‘Mistress Darcy?’  
Mary raised her head from her knees and looked up. It was George.  
‘Mary, are you alright…Whatever is the matter with you?’  
Her husband walked over to her, offered his hand and then pulled her up to her feet. His eyes searched for hers and he found them tired and red.  
‘Mary… have you been weeping?’  
He reached inside his jacket – the garment of his steward, Wickham – and handed her a handkerchief. She held the cloth between her fingers – she noticed that it was her own embroidery, one of the few things that she had stitched for him before their engagement. It was their interwoven initials in a bright blue thread.  
‘You kept it,’ she said warmly. She looked up at him and a small smile brightened her face.  
‘Yes,’ he nodded, gently taking the handkerchief from her.  
‘One always finds a handkerchief most useful for wiping away tears and blotting the noses of pretty, young ladies on the decks of ships’.  
He pressed the cloth gently to her face and wiped her tears. She responded by reaching for his hand and kissing it gently.  
‘I know you are scared, my love,’ he said. ‘I know that you are unsure about what the future holds for us, but please know that I will do everything I can to protect you’.  
Mary looked at her husband. He was shorter than she remembered – maybe even the same height when she was in her cotton feet, however, he was broad. Solid and reliable. She was not sure if she loved him yet, but she trusted him and believed that he would do everything he said he would.  
She looked into his eyes, so wise for such a young man, and then vomited on his shoes. George stood silent for a moment, then looked at his wife and laughed.  Despite herself, she laughed too.  
‘I think you need something to eat, Mistress Darcy,’ he said, shaking the mess from his foot. ‘Will you give me the honour of accompanying you downstairs for supper?’  
And with that, they retired into the cramped warmth of the lower deck.

* 

The physician confirmed that Mary was with child three months after they arrived in Hamburg. She felt heavy and uncomfortable from the start, and the strange rich food of her new home was doing nothing to help abate the nausea which she seemed to have felt since they left Derbyshire nearly nine months ago. Their new home was comfortable, and George had done everything he could to make sure that she was satisfied with their exiled status.

‘I have received a letter from Wickham today’, George said as he walked into their small chamber.

Mary was attempting to translate a book of sermons from German to English, which was proving much more difficult than she had anticipated. She put it aside, tired of verbs for one day.

‘Pray, what does he say?’ She looked up and smiled at her husband, as he kissed her gently on the forehead. Their less formal situation meant that they were not as expected to adhere to more formal displays of affection, even in front of their servants. George sighed and continued to quickly skim through the letter as he poured himself a glass of ale and then stood in front of the fire.  
‘Young Robert Wren was arrested...’  
‘Robert the kitchen boy?’ Mary remembered a boy of about fourteen, who brought her wine and bread to take with her for the journey. She remembered his head of red curls, and the look of sadness and fear in his face. ‘Can we do nothing to help him?’  
‘I am afraid that it may be too late’, George took a seat over at his writing desk in the corner of the room. Stained with ink and piled with papers, it was shabby and inconspicuous.  
‘What does Wickham say?’ she enquired. ‘How are his family? His son’s wife was with child when we left, was she not?’  
George was concentrating, scratching at the paper, inking out his scrawl. Mary studied him for a moment, her finger gently twisting around the green silk of her gown.  
‘Yes.’ He said, glancing at the letter. ‘The baby died.’  
Mary immediately felt sadness for poor Madeleine, who she knew quite well from her short time in Lambton. The girl was only a few years younger than herself and was so excited to carry a child. It was something expected, but still wretched.  
‘It happens quite often, my own sister died along with babe. It is a risk that we women take to fulfil our duties as wives. To be given the gift to create life is surely God’s greatest blessing upon our sex.’

She placed her hand on her stomach, her stays were now loosened to account for her ever-growing belly. For the first time she felt a movement outside of her own experience. Those little flutters so far had only been felt inside her, little tumbles and turns, but now, for the first time, she felt a proper, real movement. ‘George!’ She exclaimed. ‘Our son is strong, he moves!’  
George put down his quill and quickly moved over to his wife. He kneeled beside her, placing his hand over hers, she moved his so that his hand was over the top of her skirts. She wanted him to feel this miracle of life – to feel it too! Almost on cue, there was a turn and a kick. George moved his hand away and then tentatively moved it back. His wife’s skin was smooth and soft; in this hellish existence she was something pure and good. All thought of Robert Wren and the lost Wickham babe was gone.  
‘You are an amazing woman, Mary,’ he beamed. ‘I have no idea how I managed to convince you to be my wife.’  
Mary laughed and turned towards him, observing her husband. He had a long face, with small grey eyes that could turn almost black in a rage. She touched his cheek and he took her hand in his and gently kissed it. This was a perfect moment of happiness that Mary would remember in future times when her heart longed to be taken back to this day. But, for now, she would bask in it and consider herself very lucky indeed.

George was worried. The Wren boy had been charged with treason and hanged for crimes unknown to either his family or George. It was a strange new world and a new order that controlled it. Even though the lands at Pemberley may have been claimed by Parliamentary forces, as a Darcy he still felt a duty of care towards those who had served his family for many years. He would make it right upon his return. Necessity demanded that they relocate to France to be closer to the King. Even though there had not been a coronation, Charles was King, and he would rule in England. There was always the question of money though – it dominated every conversation and influenced every decision. The Darcys were frugal and he estimated they could live comfortably for a good few years on the money they had managed to bring with them. He was lucky that Mary was not a demanding wife like Lady Lancaster, who was constantly appalled by her status as an immigrant and a houseguest. William Lancaster was amused greatly by his wife’s disgust. George had invited them to dine at their lodgings that evening, although he was unsure how well Lady Lancaster would receive lamprey pie.


End file.
